


en sus marcas

by 2davidbeckham3



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: M/M, POV Second Person, Truly shippy stuff is at the end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-04
Updated: 2020-12-04
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:20:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27878273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/2davidbeckham3/pseuds/2davidbeckham3
Summary: A snapshot in learning practical Spanish.
Relationships: David Beckham/Iker Casillas (slight)
Kudos: 6





	en sus marcas

**Author's Note:**

> I found this in my phone notes, mostly written, and it's at least 2 years old. I tried editing it into something coherent while still trying to keep the original spirit of the fic.
> 
> There's oddly a lot of linguistics terms mentioned - and by a lot I mean that i actually mentioned some, which is a lot by my standards - and I think the only one I didn't really explain was the gerund. The gerund is the verb form ending with -ing. Jumping. Kayaking.

El míster's droning on about something or another that you wouldn't fully get even if you were paying attention. 

It's much more fun to stare at Iker instead.

There's a crease between his brows again. He looks so serious, a stark contrast to the usual youthful smile that graces his face, the mischievous glint in his eye that never seems to go away.

Iker catches you staring. 

He holds your gaze, dark, concentrated like you're a formation he can't quite make out. The unfamiliarity weighs heavy on your chest for a heartbeat before Iker sticks his tongue out at you. 

You only just manage to not laugh out loud, but have to duck your head trying to disguise your shaking shoulders. 

When you look back up, you notice Iker fighting a smile. He raises his eyebrows at you, posing a silent question. Your response consists of arching your right brow in a sharp curl in the way that you know annoys him because he can't quite manage to do the same. 

He huffs, shaking his head at you. You're tempted to stick your tongue out at him now. 

El mister clears his throat and both of you startle.

Thankfully, you haven't been caught in the act, if the defender at the front of the huddle with his hands raised in defense is anything to go by. The rest of the team laughs, compounding on his embarrassment. You force out a chuckle, silently praising your luck. 

You glance at Iker from the corner of your eye and, despite the fact that he's turned his attention away from you again, you see the barest hint of a smile on his face, equal parts self-satisfied and embarrassed, a blush high on his cheeks. The sight of it makes your heart race a little faster in your chest.

You're putting your stuff away in your locker at the end of practice when he approaches you. You drop your hand from your locker handle when you turn to look at him. He's dressed down in his normal clothes now. 

"Are you ready to leave?" You ask, in a futile attempt to make conversation with the obvious question. 

Instead of answering, Iker simply stares before he tilts his head at an exaggerated angle, waiting for you to continue. 

You try not to roll your eyes. "Listo?" You ask, annoyed because there's no one you can really talk English to anymore. You just finished practice, you don't want to think. 

Iker nods once before answering, letting out a quick stream of words you both knew you had no possibility of following. 

This time, you're gaping at him, waiting for him to fill the silence. 

Instead, he sits down on the edge of the bench, pointing his chin at your stuff. "Listo?"

"Almost." 

This time Iker doesn't pretend to not understand. He stays quiet while you get ready, not even fidgeting when you tie and retie your laces. When you look up, he's already looking at you with the same inscrutable gaze you saw at practice.

"Listo?" You parrot, throat suddenly dry. 

Iker doesn't acknowledge your question before standing up, his patience from before dissipating, leaving you to tail after him. It's probably for the better, you still haven't memorized which car is his. 

You hate how people drive in Madrid, everyone goes too fast. Iker included. 

"You're speeding," you say, but get no response. It's the gerund. You're too tired. It's hard to parse the conjugation you need. "You're going too fast," you try again, though this one is mostly for yourself, but the damn gerund is still there. 

It doesn't really matter. Iker knows exactly what you said; the way that his next turn is sharper and faster than the last proves it. 

"Muy rápido," you manage to choke out after he swerves around a pothole, finally prompting him to slow down. _Too rapid_. 

"Exceso de velocidad," Iker explains. "Speeding." The S at the beginning - prominent, consonants more plosive than you're used to. Except, it's familiar now, it's slowly becoming a part of you. It's how people pronounce your name, fast, compact. 

"Exceso de velocidad" you repeat to yourself. _Excess of velocity._ It comes out wrong. Every consonant sounds too soft and vowels too drawn out. 

Still, it earns a semi-impressed hum from Iker. It's a small victory, but they're far and few in between, so you have to take what you can get. 

"Aprendiendo" You jokingly gloat, drawing out the word before punctuating your statement with a matter of fact nod. _Learning._ You toss out the word, like a toddler, using the bare minimum to get your point across now that you've remembered gerunds when they're not relevant. It's not that much far from what you've felt off the pitch, watching children's shows and relying on the pictures on the food in grocery stores to get by. "Acelerando." _Accelerating._ You add, this time just to be cheeky, showing off a cognate that you know. _I'm learning faster,_ the joke even makes you laugh.

"Tonto," Iker mutters, directing his eye roll at the road. 

A light turns yellow in front of them. Iker rolls back his shoulders "El carro va a acelerar." Iker starts, enunciating every word with exaggerated care like the stars of the shows you watch. He presses his foot down onto the gas pedal. "El carro acelera. El carro está acelerando. Estoy acelerando. Acelero."

"Tonto," you echo to hide your relief at crossing the intersection while the light was still yellow. "Tu estás yendo demasiado rápido, " You announce with the same deliberate slowness before vocalizing the translation. "You're going too fast." It's the football player in you that only lets you think in high stakes situations. "No tienes paciencia?" You ask because surely Iker demonstrated some before. Maybe his impatience extended beyond the field. 

The same self-satisfied smile of the morning's taken residence on Iker's face again, and your question makes it stretch until it turns into something mocking. Iker shoots you an incredulous look before spouting off some rapid fire Spanish you've gotten better at recognizing. "Quien--" _Who_ and the reflexive. You know an insult when you hear one. 

"Paciencia, Iker. Ten paciencia." You insist, not quite managing to stop from laughing. Your shoulders shake. 

"No patience when practicing free kicks." Iker huffs, looking over at you with an accusatory glare. 

You remember that practice, when you slotted more free kicks in the net than not. Iker's consternation and begrudging admiration. The sentiments echoed in your chest every time he punched them away from goal. It's how it all started. 

Later, when you're at his house, you bite back the urge to thank him. _Later. Después._ At least, with him, you're learning relevant phrases. _See Jane run._ The ones you use in private moments, like these. 

You're on the couch, movie forgotten on the television. Iker's sitting close enough to share your breath, there's a hand high up your thigh and another curled at the nape of your neck. "Too fast?" He asks. He hasn't stopped looking down at your lips. 

You shake your head. "Listo." And then you lean in. 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on mobile, so I'll add translations later.
> 
> (Past me also had end notes basically written out, hence why I could clean up this fic. Shout out to past me.) 
> 
> \- the title comes from "en sus marcas, listos fuera" which is "on your marks, get set, go " the stages of becksillas if you ask me! Though, in that respect, this is supposed to be a vague get together/early stages becksillas fic.  
> \- part of what I wanted to get across was like a young, mischievous, but enigmatic Iker that Becks is smitten with, but also appreciates the push to learn Spanish. They do say that the quickest way to pick up a language is to have a significant other that speaks it. I'll link a clip of David speaking Spanish later!
> 
> Thanks so much for reading!


End file.
